


Sleight of Hand, Twist of Fate

by yaycoffee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Case Fic, Doctor!John, Gen, Hostage Situations, John Watson is having a Very Bad Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 21:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s luck with the chip-and-pin machines of London proves, well—consistent. His luck at the bank, though, is even worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleight of Hand, Twist of Fate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cccahill18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cccahill18/gifts).



> Written for cccahill18 for the June 2013 holmestice exchange on LiveJournal.
> 
> So many thanks to my beta/cheerleader, Fiona_Fawkes. I couldn't have written this without your guidance and support! Also, thanks to TKK, who got Sherlock out of quite a pickle and to berrylicious877, who helped John do his job ;-)

Really, all John wanted was a simple breakfast. Toast, jam, tea. His food was clearly visible on his shelf of the fridge when he put the milk there just last night. Now though, for as far as the eye can see—sheep livers. Full sized ones, dissected in half ones, fresh ones, shriveled ones, and there is one container that makes him want to do _anything_ other than inspect the cheese grater because, _grated ones_.  
  
He takes a steadying breath and carefully shuts the fridge door before taking himself to where Sherlock is in the living room, sprawled over the sofa in his dressing gown.  
  
“Sherlock?” he asks, voice light.  
  
Sherlock sighs heavily before turning his head to meet John’s glare.  
  
“Where did you put the things that were in the fridge? You know, the food. _My_ food.”  
  
“Binned them,” he replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. “They would have gone off anyway. Didn’t want you complaining at the smell.” He lets his hand fall heavily back to his stomach.  
  
John shifts a little on his feet, slowly shaking his head. Of course Sherlock has thrown out the food, of course he has. Why wouldn’t he?  
  
John pinches the bridge of his nose because his head is beginning to ache. “So you just—chucked—all of my food so you could—” He cuts himself off, deciding it’s best to just walk away. He can already tell by the blank look Sherlock is giving him that this conversation won’t go anywhere but in circles, and he is not in the mood. He is too hungry to be in the mood.  
  
“Right,” he says, working very hard to keep his voice even. “I am going to leave now. While I’m out, I am going to buy more food. I will put that food in the refrigerator, where there will be space for it by one o’clock this afternoon. Then, you will not, under any circumstances, remove the food from my shelf again without my permission.”  
  
Sherlock furrows his brow, but John doesn’t give him an opportunity to reply; he grabs his jacket and his keys and leaves, letting the door slam cathartically on his way out.  
  
John walks the city, wondering why in the hell he still puts up with this shit, why he lets Sherlock violate even the simplest personal boundaries (and it’s probably best not to even begin thinking about the not-so-simple ones). He feels anger rolling from the white hot headache spot behind his eyes, down through the vertebrae in his spine, and then further through his legs, which move him faster and farther away from Baker Street.  
  
To his added chagrin, it is one of those perfectly fresh early summer mornings, all cool breeze and sun that promises to make him shed his jacket before lunchtime. London is already full of commuters and tourists, hand-in-hand couples and mothers-with-prams and City Boys on their mobiles. The entire city has come out to walk with him this morning when what he really wants is for the rain to soak through the bottom hems of his trousers and make his socks uncomfortable. It doesn’t match—this weather with his mood.  
  
He stops at a newsagents for a little packet of paracetamol along with today’s newspaper, then to the little shop next to it for a cup of tea and a bacon bap. He makes his way back to the park where he finds a bench to watch the world walk by while he eats.  
  
John half-wishes he had a shift at the surgery today—something to keep his mind and body busy, to get him a little distance, to let him do something he _understands_ for a change. He’s sick to bloody death of moody flatmates and whole toenails in the bathroom sink and sheep livers taking up the spot where his marmalade is meant to go. And he really, _really_ fucking resents that while he’s reading his paper, his brain cannot help but make a note of anything that looks _interesting_ , knowing for absolute certain that in however long—an hour, three—that he’ll actually be looking forward to climbing the stairs of his flat to show these stories to Sherlock, who will surely proclaim each and every one of these things but a waste of his magnificent intellect.  
  
By the time John takes his last sip of tea, he’s started on the crossword, and he realises that his headache is gone. That annoys him, too; it’s so much easier to stew in one’s anger when one is also in actual pain. His phone chirps from inside his pocket with a text alert. It is a picture file—the inside of a fridge packed to the gills with livers, save for one sparklingly clean shelf at the top. He really wants to not be smiling, but it can’t be helped. With a resigned sigh, he folds his paper, deciding at least to take the long way back.  
  
The little Sainsbury’s is on the way, so John steps inside and picks up a hand basket to re-buy bread and jam and eggs and milk. He also picks up a fresh Sharpie because he _will_ write his name on every single thing he buys from now on. In giant letters.  
  
The queue at the front is taking much longer than usual, but he doesn’t mind—even though he’s over the worst of his strop, he is still in no rush to get home. He idly scans the covers of magazines, absorbing more celebrity gossip he ever really wanted to know before picking up a paperback thriller instead. He reads the back blurb and then the first page, and then the second. He’s almost finished with the first chapter by the time the cashier calls him forward.  
  
She’s a dumpy woman of about fifty with smoker’s lines starting around her mouth and hair that is nearly the yellow of a child’s crayon at the bottom but a steely grey-brown at the roots. From her perch on her stool, she pulls his things across the scanner. He swipes his card to pay, but nothing happens. He tries a couple more times—also nothing. It is growing clear to him that the chip-and-pins of London must have indeed held some sort of Robot Summit where they all had chat and a vote and collectively agreed to screw John Watson.  
  
He really is mere moments away from ripping the bloody thing off its stand when the cashier clears her throat at him. She doesn’t actually _say_ anything, simply pointing at the sign posted on the register, in thick black lettering, on neon pink cardstock—CHIP-AND-PIN OUT OF ORDER. CASH ONLY.  
  
“Oh, for fu—,” he mutters under his breath but stops himself actually swearing, leaving it instead with a curt scrunch of his eyes and a clipped, “Ta. Thank you. So much.” But from the front windows, he can see a NatWest branch across the street and decides that the easiest thing to do would be to just pop to the ATM there and back. So he smiles wide, shrugging on his best Nice Guy charm to convince her to let him keep his basket at the register for five minutes (ten, tops).  
  
The ATM is inside this branch, so he steps in and takes his place at the back of yet another queue.  
  
This one is moving a bit faster than the one at the Sainsbury’s, but barely. It’s long—six people ahead of him. He wishes he had his paperback for something to do, but it’s sitting with his getting-warm-now milk and eggs in a basket across the street. The queue shuffles forward by one person, and John casts about to people-watch, passing the time. If Sherlock were here, he would have detailed data on these people’s deepest secrets based on the direction of the wrinkles in their trousers or the smell of their shampoo or the scuff marks on the backs of their shoes.  
  
But, Sherlock is not here, so he does his best to make his own game of it. Just in front of him is a bloke in a Arsenal tee shirt: clearly hung-over, late night with the lads down at the pub, celebrating (easy enough). Standing in the back of the teller’s queue is a teenaged girl with very straight hair, shot through with stripes of pink. She is wearing artfully ripped skinny jeans, an oversized man’s cardigan, and funny little pointed boots: Art student, perhaps? Or maybe in a band?  
  
At the teller’s desk, there is an Everyone’s-Nan sort of lady slowly counting change as she passes it, one pound at a time, to the young lad behind the counter who is smiling at her very patiently. The man waiting after her is not so tolerant, shifting from foot to foot, coat swinging with each impatient step. His rudeness bothers John on some bone-deep level—manners really are becoming a thing of the past, it would seem. He makes a point to smile at her as she’s leaving, noting that he’s gone up in the queue by two people. He just might make it back to the shop before his milk curdles after all.  
  
Still waiting, he pulls his phone from his pocket to shoot a quick text off to Sherlock: _So u do know how 2 use that mysterious blue bottle of fluid we keep by the sink. Noted._ He taps the send button, listening to the little wooshing sound it makes as the message floats through space.  
  
And then, without even realising why at first, he’s belly down on the ground with a fist full of fabric in his other hand; he took Arsenal Shirt down with him. John’s heartbeat roars in his ears for a moment, and then he breathes, stills, and looks.  
  
Gunfire.  
  
Stepping back from the teller counter, the man in the coat is shooting out the ceiling tiles. He’s got a hostage, the pink-haired girl, free arm around her neck, gun now aimed at her head. Her face is ghost white.  
  
John has just looked round to take in the rest of the scene when another man with a gun holds out a plastic bag.  
  
“Mobile phones in here, ladies and gents,” he says. “Nice and easy.” He starts at the opposite end of the room.  
  
John’s text message thread to Sherlock is still up. He has just enough time to flick the silencing switch and hit the green “call” button at the top. He leaves the line open and hopes for the best as he drops his phone into the bag with the others. He makes eye contact with the guy when he does, trying to do what Sherlock can do—trying to figure this guy out with a look, but he can’t get anywhere beyond height (just under six foot), build (maybe twelve, thirteen stone?), short dark hair, thick Northern accent.  
  
“No one needs to be a hero here,” the other one is saying, and his voice is half a step higher than his partner’s, though his is a London accent, probably from the East End. “My friend and I have a little transaction to make, and once we’re satisfied with our service, we will all be on our way, ain’t that right?” His last question is pointed at the young teller behind the counter, tan suit too large in the shoulders and arms. He looks like a kid wearing his father’s clothes in a play. The teller swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing jerkily above the knot in his tie.  
  
“Yes, sir,” the teller says. “What can I do for you today?” His voice does not stop shaking.  
  
“First, you’re gonna keep your hands where I can see ‘em. I know you’ve got that button under there somewhere. You’ll not be using it today.”  
  
“Yes,” he stammers. “Of course.” His hands are trembling even more than his voice.  
  
====  
  
Sherlock stays in his spot on the sofa for exactly as long as it takes John to slam the downstairs door. Then, he immediately shoots forward to the window to watch him go. He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much when John does this, just storms out without so much as waiting to hear about the experiment. John is also a man of science; one would assume he would have at least a passing interest in how different poisons affect organ tissue in various stages of decomposition. It’s _important_ to the work. Why can’t he _see_ that?  
  
Once John is out of sight, Sherlock turns from the window. From where he stands, most of the kitchen is clearly visible, and he simply does not understand why John is so upset. He made sure to keep everything contained and tidy. He even washed the cheese grater, carefully scrubbing each and every little groove, just to make sure.  
  
Sherlock sighs. With nothing else to do, he goes to get dressed.  
  
Half an hour later, John is still gone, Sherlock is out of projects, and the flat is growing increasingly dull. Lestrade hasn’t texted in three days, and his experiment will take at least thirty-two more hours before its ready for further data collection. He eyes his violin in the corner, but he isn’t interested in that either.  
  
If John were here, he would be asking Sherlock for hints on the crossword clues he can’t quite get, maybe even point out a couple of promising leads from the inside pages. Reading the newspaper is nearly as tedious as watching the news on the television. The fact that John doesn’t seem to mind it is rather… useful.  
  
Sherlock walks to the kitchen where he opens the door of the refrigerator. His system is rather ingenious, he still thinks. Everything fit exactly as it should, catalogued and ordered to a tee. Though, he supposes if he were to transfer the samples on tray five to one with higher sides, he could implement a stacking system, leaving John’s space open.  
  
He finds the perfect high-sided tray in Mrs Hudson’s back cupboard while she’s out for her Thursday morning bridge group. She really should buy better locks; any dolt with a paperclip can break this one.  
  
Once he rearranges the samples, he snaps a picture and sends it to John.  
  
Sherlock waits for five minutes, but John doesn’t reply. He considers sending another text, but decides against it. He’s done as John asked, and John will be back within the hour, likely with more shopping. Perhaps they can go down to the Met and talk to Lestrade about getting a case. In the meantime, Sherlock takes up his laptop to begin typing up the initial steps and hypotheses for the poison experiment.  
  
His text alert goes off just before he finishes his last sentence. He checks it and feels the corner of his mouth quirk upwards. John is teasing him.  
  
He finishes the sentence at his laptop quickly before returning his attention to his phone, where he composes a reply admonishing John’s appalling abuse of the English language. He hasn’t even sent it yet before his phone is actually ringing with a call from John. Odd.  
  
He thinks about simply letting it ring; John knows he prefers to text. But, that is what makes him answer. John very rarely rings.  
  
“John,” he answers.  
  
But there is no reply. He waits, listening for a beat, but it is only background noise. He nearly dismisses it as John accidentally “pocket dialing,” (John’s term) as he has done on a few occasions in the past. “John,” he repeats, but John still doesn’t answer. There is, instead, a different voice that captures his notice.  
  
 _First, you’re gonna keep your hands where I can see ‘em. I know you’ve got that button under there somewhere. You’ll not be using it today._  
  
The rest of the world falls away in an instant, leaving only the sound coming from his mobile. He swallows once and listens harder. He can’t hear the other speaker’s reply clearly, but the voice is unsteady: male, mid-twenties. Mention of a forbidden button. Bank robbery. Why is John at the bank? Which bank?  
  
He keeps his phone pressed to his ear and listens while he moves swiftly to his bedroom. From inside his wardrobe, under the shoe rack, he fits his fingernail along the right groove, prying up the board. Beneath it is a metal box with certain items from his _time away_ , as he and John are calling it now. Four passports and currency from seven different countries, and what he needs: the burner mobile with an extra charger and a Browning of his very own.  
  
On the other end of the phone line, he hears air and shuffling and whimpering—still no voice from John. The robbers aren’t saying much, an order to _move there_ or _open that_. Sherlock knows that if he is heard, the robbers will cut the call (and possibly harm John for violating one of their demands), so before he powers on the burner, he mutes the call at his ear. He also finds his set of ear buds and attaches them, turning the volume up as high as it will go. This will drain the battery faster, but he can’t risk missing anything. He’s got an extra charger—a little extra time.  
  
The burner powers up slowly, and he is already out the door by the time he is able to dial Lestrade’s number. Lestrade answers between the second and third rings.  
  
“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he says.  
  
“John is in trouble,” Sherlock barks.  
  
“Who is—Sherlock? What phone are you using? This isn’t your number.”  
  
“Unimportant,” Sherlock replies. “John is currently in a bank robbery—somewhere. There is at least one other hostage, probably many more. Has anything come in?”  
  
Lestrade’s voice goes more serious. “I’ll check.” Sherlock doesn’t bother listening to the white noise on Lestrade’s line while he waits. He needs to _think_ , so he rings off with Lestrade; he’ll call back when he has information.  
  
Where would John have gone? John was upset, currently not seeing any girlfriend, so—the park. He was likely there when Sherlock sent his picture text, so, with all probability, his next stop would have been for groceries. John prefers Tesco, but the Sainsbury’s would have been on his route from the park, so that is more likely. He is obviously not there now, but that is the best place to start.  
  
He can get there by foot faster than if he waits for a taxi, so he runs. He is there in less than five minutes. There is a long, a very long, queue at the front—only one cashier working, sign saying that the chip-and-pin machine is out of order. If John was here, the cashier would have seen him. She might know at least which direction he went as he left. He cuts to the front, and the spotty kid behind him shouts, “Oi, mate!” Sherlock ignores him.  
  
The cashier looks up from her scanner, head of lettuce in hand. “Sir,” she says in the deep rasp of a long-time smoker, “You’ll need to step to the back of the qu—”  
  
“I’m looking for someone,” Sherlock interrupts. “A man.”  
  
The cashier simply raises an eyebrow at him, and someone behind him says, “Aren’t we all,” to a few sniggers.  
  
Sherlock scowls. “A particular man.” He pulls up John’s blog on his phone, enlarging the smiling face of his flatmate, flipping it around to show her.  
  
“Oh, yeah,” she says. “He was in, maybe half an hour ago. Said he was going to nip out for some cash and to watch his things—that he’d be back soon. Had to put the milk back before it went off.”  
  
She begins to rant a little about people keeping their word, and a few of the customers behind him are getting agitated. Sherlock shakes his head and leans in closer barking, “Did you see where he _went_? It’s _important_.”  
  
“I ain’t his mum, am I?” she says, but then, she turns round to the bank branch just across the way. “But, I reckon he just went over there.”  
  
Stupid! Of course that’s where he is! Sherlock leaves the shop and runs again. He’s at the bank in under a minute. The window grates are down, the blinds are drawn, and the door is locked. This is definitely the place.  
  
He rings Lestrade again from the burner.  
  
====  
  
They’ve been moved against the wall. There are ten of them sitting like ducks in a row. John has learnt that Arsenal Shirt is actually called Nigel, and the bloke on his other side is called Mark, who is a thirty-something father of two, and John can feel him unraveling more and more as the seconds pass. He is too fidgety, too nervous, muttering constantly about his children, his wife, his children, his children. John tries his best to cast about for glances at the others without moving too much, but all he can really see are legs and feet. The Northern gunman is guarding them like a Doberman Pinscher.  
  
Three employees, including the kid in the suit, are sat with the rest of them. The first gunman has his gun now aimed at the branch manager, a forty-something woman who reminds him of his therapist, all dark skin and regal poise, looking very tall indeed from his spot on the floor. She has a sharp suit and a honey-smooth voice, moving coolly, clearly trained for this situation. She has been opening locks and punching buttons on computers with a gun pointed at her head as if she is simply walking a normal customer through a simple transaction. The only tell that she’s at all flustered is the slight sheen of sweat she keeps wiping from her upper lip and at her temple with her index finger.  
  
He hears the London bloke thank the lady as she snaps up his briefcase from the front counter, and John believes for a moment that this might all be over and done, when several things happen very quickly: The blare of a police siren comes from outside, and the Northern gunman shifts his focus for a moment. Mark-with-children springs forward to rugby-tackle him, but he isn’t quick enough. The gunman shoots him in a second, and he lies on the ground, bloody and gasping.  
  
The first gunman begins shouting at the employees, aiming his gun at the suit kid, “You fucking called the cops! I told you not to press the button!”  
  
Suit Kid is frantic, pleading, “I didn’t! I swear I didn’t!” but the Northern bloke aims and fires at the wall above him, plaster exploding just above his head.  
  
London pulls him roughly by the arm, hauling him close to whisper something John can’t hear in his ear. Calmer, they separate, and John takes the pause to clear his throat and slowly put his hands out in front of him.  
  
“I’m a doctor. That man is seriously hurt. You don’t want him dying. Can I help him?”  
  
London seems to debate this for a moment but eventually nods. John stands slowly, making his way over to Mark, who has lost a lot of blood already. His breathing is fast, shallow and wet when John puts his hands over the wound to staunch the bleeding as much as he can.  
  
“Mark,” John says. “It’s John. I’m going to try and help, but you are going to have to try and calm down a bit. Can you do that? You need to get home to your kids tonight, alright.”  
  
Mark’s nod becomes a gurgling wheeze, and the bloody mist coming from his open mouth flecks the front of John’s jumper. He’s been shot in the left lung—open pneumothorax, sucking chest wound. John needs something to seal the hole, possibly something to drain the lung if it comes to that.  
  
John looks about for a bit of plastic, finding nothing within arm’s distance. Over where the gunmen are keeping their things, he spots a few shopping bags. He looks to London because he seems to be the one in charge and speaks firmly. “I need that WHSmith bag to cover his wound. And, if the bank has a first-aid kit, I could use that, too.”  
  
London gets it for him while John does his best to remove the shirt from the wound. London hands him the bag, and John holds it in place immediately. It’s better, but not great. Mark’s other lung will keep him alive for a bit, but there isn’t much he can do without any equipment; he needs to get this guy to the OR.  
  
“He needs a hospital,” John says to London. “Can we get him on an ambulance?”  
  
That is when the main phone rings, sounding very loud in the quiet room.  
  
====  
  
Sherlock paces in front of the bank while he waits. Lestrade will be here with _back up_ in minutes, but it feels like an eternity. Sherlock doesn’t like waiting under any circumstance, and this—this is so much worse than normal.  
  
Logically he knows that John can handle himself rather capably; he is army trained. Sherlock has watched him keep his cool with a bomb strapped to his chest. It is not as though Sherlock is _worried_ ; he would just be more comfortable if he was in there, able to act, and he hates the centimeter of glass and metal that is separating him from _knowing_.  
  
And, _perfect_ ; the Met comes in with sirens blaring. They really are the biggest lot of idiots. When the first car pulls in, Sherlock bangs his open hand against the bonnet as he runs around to the driver’s window.  
  
“Cut the sirens!” he shouts through the glass, but the officer isn’t quick enough. It is too late. There are gunshots from inside. Sherlock hauls himself to the back of the car and ducks for cover.  
  
Lestrade is in the car that pulls in next. He has had at least enough sense to silence the sirens, leaving only his lights flashing. Sherlock is in his face the second he steps from the car.  
  
“That idiot over there might have landed us a dead body! What in the hell were they thinking coming in here with sirens? Do you want to spook them into opening fire on everyone inside! ” He adds more quietly, almost to himself, “John is in there.”  
  
“Sherlock,” Lestrade says, placing a firm hand on Sherlock’s chest to move him back. “I know. They’re only doing as their trained. He had to get the foot traffic out of the way.” Lestrade removes his hand and continues, “Now. What’ve you got?”  
  
Sherlock explains about the phone call, relays what he’s worked out so far: two gunmen, unsure if there are any killed or injured. He hands Lestrade one of the ear buds so he can listen to the open line as well. They both hear John’s voice: _I’m a doctor. That man is seriously hurt. You don’t want him dying. Can I help him?_  
  
Sherlock lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. John is safe.  
  
“Sir.” Sherlock looks up to see Sally Donovan speaking to Lestrade. Lestrade removes the ear bud from his ear so he can move a bit further away. Sherlock doesn’t let him get far, though, stepping right along with him. This earns him an eye-roll from Donovan, but she continues speaking pointedly to Lestrade. “We’re canvassing the area, trying to find any possible witnesses, but so far—there isn’t much.”  
  
“Good work,” Lestrade says. “Keep at it. Maybe someone saw or heard something.”  
  
Sherlock huffs. “ _I’ve_ heard almost everything,” he says, tugging on the chord to the ear buds. “It’s not getting us anywhere. We are wasting time. I need to get inside.”  
  
“Yeah, well—you can’t see through those things now, can you?” Donovan says, slight snarl curling her lip. “Maybe someone saw something that will help us find out who those guys are.”  
  
Lestrade nods. “Only one way to find out. On you go,” he says. Donovan nods once and strides away as someone else approaches. Lestrade stands straighter, turning toward the new man. He’s just shorter than Lestrade with hair a touch too long for a man his age (early fifties) and suit jacket a bit too trendy for his position. “Cooper,” Lestrade says, shaking his hand.  
  
“Lestrade,” Cooper returns.  
  
“This is Sherlock Holmes. He called this in. He works with us from time to time,” Lestrade explains.  
  
Sherlock shakes Cooper’s hand as well. “Consulting Detective.”  
  
“Yes,” Cooper says. “I’m familiar with your work. Bill Cooper. I’m the hostage negotiator.” The smile he gives doesn’t extend to his eyes. Fantastic. Just what Sherlock needs—some twit with a mail-ordered degree in psychology pretending he has some sort of _special insight_. This day just gets better and better.  
  
“Haven’t seen you in a while. How’s Lisa?”  
  
“She left,” Sherlock says, “Six months ago,” and the new man, Cooper, blinks.  
  
“Don’t mind him,” Lestrade says, giving Sherlock a _look_.  
  
Cooper recovers with a wry quirk of his mouth. “He’s not wrong. I’m doing fine, though”  
  
“I bet you are,” Sherlock says under his breath. Both Lestrade and Cooper look at him now. Sherlock ignores them, pressing at the ear bud in his ear. “John’s asking for an ambulance. At least one victim shot and critical. We haven’t time for your lovely little catch-up on the wife and kiddies.”  
  
Just then, a uniformed officer hands Cooper a phone and an ear-piece. “We’re ready to go, sir.”  
  
“Thank you,” Cooper says to her, fastening the thing to his ear. He presses a button on the phone and Sherlock hears the far-away ring of it in his ear. It rings for over a minute. “Answering services have been disabled. It will ring until they decide to pick it up.” He flashes an arrogant grin. “They always pick up.”  
  
Another thirty seconds pass before the ringing stops, and the man with the East End accent answers, “Hello.”  
  
“Hello,” Cooper says, voice clinically friendly. “Who am I speaking with? What’s your name, mate.”  
  
“We’re not mates.”  
  
“You’re right. We’re not. But I think we could be. I’m Bill. Bill Cooper. Weather’s lovely today, isn’t it. I would much rather be out with my kids kicking the football around. Do you have any kids?”  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes so far back into his head that his head tilts skyward. This will get them nowhere.  
  
“They need medical assistance,” Sherlock says to Lestrade. “We haven’t time for this! Get me in there.”  
  
“Sherlock,” Lestrade warns. “Let him do his job. He’s good at this, all right? Have a little patience.”  
  
Sherlock growls.  
  
“We heard gunshots,” Cooper says. “Everyone all right?”  
  
There is silence on the other end for a beat.  
  
“Listen,” Cooper continues. “I can’t help you if you don’t let me know what’s going on. I want to help you. Is anyone hurt?”  
  
There is more silence for a beat, and then the robber says, “Yeah—we got one shot. He needs an ambulance. But I can’t let you lot in here, can I. It’s quite the pickle.”  
  
“See,” Cooper says. “That’s why we should be friends. I can help you. Make sure everyone in there, including you, makes it out in one piece. But I won’t be able to promise that forever. What can I do for you now?”  
  
“We need an ambulance,” the robber says.  
  
“I don’t know if I can do that without you doing something for me. How about you let the people in there go? We can get the injured man to hospital and make sure this ends without anyone else getting hurt.”  
  
“I can’t let ‘em all go, _Bill_ , but I’ll think about it. Can you get us an ambulance?”  
  
“I can’t send a paramedic inside, but I can have one waiting for you just outside. How about you send out the injured man to us?”  
  
“I can do that,” the robber says. “But nothing funny, or I’ll shoot someone else. Plenty of people in here.”  
  
Cooper makes a sort of twirling gesture with his index finger, and the people around them begin to move quickly. There is already an ambulance on the scene, held back with the rest of the emergency vehicles. When Sherlock looks up, he sees armed officers moving about with launchers for tear gas and then the flashing of scopes on the roofs above—snipers. Oh, stupid.  
  
Sherlock pulls Lestrade close, keeping his voice low so as not to be heard through the line at all. “You can’t possibly think you’ll be able to clear a shot. Even with an open door, he won’t bring the injured man out himself—” Sherlock stops speaking at the sound of John’s voice again, loud and strong in his ear. _His lung needs draining. We have to do something,_ now! _Shit. You—I need your earring._  
  
=====  
  
The bank manager comes back from the toilets, the Northern bloke just behind her with a gun, and hands him a first-aid kit the size of a bread box. John knows that the odds of a there being a pump and a 14-guage needle in are slim to none, but when he opens it, he does find several pairs of gloves, full sized bottles of peroxide and isopropyl alcohol, gauze and tape. He takes a breath. This is far from his first experience in having to improvise in the field, but even in the desert, he wasn’t ever without his kit.  
  
He’s partially aware of everyone watching him as he works, which gives him the strange feeling of being back at Bart’s on his internship, but he carries on anyway. Mark has lost a lot of blood and will move into the late stages of shock very soon. John really needs to get him out of there.  
  
John half-listens to London on the phone with the cops as he cleans his hands the best he can before snapping on a pair of gloves. He applies gauze over the plastic, taping it at three sides before wrapping a long line of gauze around Mark’s torso to secure it in place like a field bandage. He shifts Mark so that he is lying on his side, wound to the bottom, which will help keep him as comfortable as possible until they can get him out.  
  
For a while, Mark is indeed doing fine—as stable as could be expected. His breathing has lost the hiss of sucking air, and the blood flowing from the hole in his chest is slowed as much as possible. John stays nearby, watching Mark but listening now very closely to the conversation London is having with someone who must be the Met’s hostage negotiator. London is trying to get Mark on an ambulance, which is promising—he clearly doesn’t want fatalities.  
  
John’s attention snaps back to Mark when suddenly, he is gasping, body trembling as he begins to seize. As John rolls him to his back once again, he shouts at London, “His lung needs draining. We have to do something, _now!_ Shit.” He looks around. He has to find something that would work as a needle. He finds what he thinks might work dangling from the ear of one of the other hostages. “You,” he says to a woman of about thirty. “I need your earring.”  
  
She takes it off immediately, but looks to the Northern bloke before getting up. He nods, allowing her to stand, and she puts the thing in John’s outstretched hand. Working quickly, John uses the scissors from the kit to nip the finger off one of the gloves. This will have to do. He doesn’t have time to sterilize the earring properly, but he does his best with the alcohol and some gauze. It’s not quite as sharp as he would like, but he fits it through the glove finger and holds his breath as he jabs the thing into place in Mark’s chest.  
  
Mark gasps as blood and fluid leak into the glove’s finger, and John exhales. This is working for now, but they absolutely must get Mark out. He really doesn’t have much time at all.  
  
John about to say as much when London says to him, “You, Doc. You’re gonna walk him to the door and set ‘im out side. If you so much as take one step further, I will shoot you in the head. Got it?”  
  
John nods. He turns back to Mark. “Mark, I am going to move you now. We’re going to get you to hospital where they’re going to patch you up good as new, all right? This is going to be rather uncomfortable, I’m afraid, but I’m going to need you to try and stand with me.” John winces at Mark’s cry of pain as he lifts the arm of his uninjured side around his shoulders. This will not help the shock. John lifts most of Mark’s body weight himself as he carries him to the door. London is two steps behind him the whole time, gun aimed at his head.  
  
The bank manager pulls her keys from a spiraled wristband and unlocks the door. It seems very bright outside, and the day has indeed become quite warm. He sets Mark down on his side again, knowing the paramedics won’t come until John is securely back inside the bank. He risks a quick glance to the crowd of police and reporters and he sees Sherlock’s tall frame among them. He nods to Sherlock who fiddles with a chord at his ear before he nods once back. He almost misses the flash of a sniper’s scope from the roof of the building opposite. This is not going to go well.  
  
John is just back inside before the manager locks the door once again. His clothes are covered in Mark’s blood, growing stiff from it. He removes his gloves as he sits back at his place against the wall with the others; there are rust-dark stains around his fingernails and in the creases of his knuckles.  
  
It isn’t long before the phone begins ringing again, and John listens to one side of the conversation as London says:  
  
“Now, you gotta do somethin’ for me, ain’t that right?”  
  
“Yeah, well. Since we’re such _good mates_ and all, I reckon you could get us a lift outta here. I’m thinkin’ a car what won’t be followed, and then we’ll all be out in one piece.”  
  
“You have half an hour before I shoot someone—on purpose this time, so’s that even Doc here won’t be able to do anything about it.”  
  
“Thirty minutes, _mate_. Tick-tock.”  
  
There is complete silence while they sit. John pulls his knees up and rests his elbows on them. The minutes pass slowly. One. Two. Five. Eight. John begins to recite song lyrics and favourite movie lines in his head to keep his mind clear, a little trick he picked up in Afghanistan.  
  
Suddenly every head in the room turns toward the bag with the mobile phones, which has been ringing and buzzing occasionally throughout the ordeal. But this is different.  
  
John can’t make out everything exactly, but it is clearly Sherlock’s voice, loud and clear: _Even you can’t be_ that _stupid_. _They will never clear the shot; you are placing every life in that building at risk._  
  
John is willing Sherlock to just _shut up_ for once as London tips out the bag and inspects each phone.  
  
“Oh, I see,” he says. “Looks like one of you thought they were bein’ clever.” It really is very short work before he’s holding John’s phone in his hand. He brings it to his ear and says with a syrupy politeness, “Hello! And, with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”  
  
=====  
  
Sherlock does not like the look of John’s favorite cardigan covered in blood, but the relief of actually seeing him unharmed sends a feeling like relief settling deep into his bones. The second the door shuts again, John back inside, the paramedics rush forward to do their job.  
  
Through his ear buds, he listens to the conversation; Cooper is still trying to get the robber to think of him as a friend. Ridiculous. Anyone with half a brain can tell that the robber sees through it, is in fact tightening the reigns. Half an hour for a car. Sherlock knows that the Met won’t let that happen, that the snipers will shoot the very moment that the robbers come out of the bank.  
  
When Sherlock steps closer to their conversation, Cooper is telling Lestrade, “We need to make sure that the car is clear, and then the snipers can do their job, and we’re all back home in time for tea.”  
  
“Lestrade, you can’t possibly be serious,” Sherlock says. “This plan is absolutely moronic.”  
  
“Listen, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, but Cooper cuts him off before he can finish.  
  
Cooper gets right in Sherlock’s face. “Look,” he says. “I am growing pretty tired of your attitude. I know what I’m doing. I have a degree in psychology and have aided the Met in over fifty cases like this one. I know how these guys think. So, back the fuck off!”  
  
“Oh, yes,” Sherlock says smoothly. “I can see that you are in _complete_ control. Now tell me, is it the same control you used on your wife before she decided that she’d had enough? Your new girlfriend is clearly still young and stupid enough to put up with it, but even that is beginning to unravel as well, is it not? It must be so wonderful to have every confidence in the method you’ve used successfully, what? Sixty, seventy percent of the time?”  
  
Cooper’s face is growing a rather delightful shade of magenta, which is pleasing in what Sherlock knows is a childish sort of way, but he isn’t allowed the luxury of enjoying it for very long. There is a new beeping in his ear, letting him know that the battery on his phone is running out. He retrieves the phone and portable charger from his pocket, fitting them together before the phone powers off.  
  
While he has his head down, focus turned on the phone, Cooper comes at him with a fist. Cooper doesn’t get his punch in; Sherlock blocks it, but barely, and he loses his grip of the phone. It goes skittering to the pavement, ear chord dangling uselessly just below his waist. Damn it.  
  
He means to pick it up, but Cooper grabs him by the lapel of his jacket. “You poncy little know-it-all,” he growls. “I _know_ what I’m doing, and we will use the correct protocol on this operation, got it!”  
  
Sherlock takes a step back, pulling Cooper’s hands from his jacket. Lestrade steps between them while Sherlock retrieves his phone from the ground. He straightens his jacket front and fits the ear bud jack back into place. Bringing himself to full hight he looks first to Lestrade and then to Cooper, saying “Cooper, even you can’t be _that_ stupid. They will never clear the shot; you are placing every life in that building at risk.”  
  
He has his entire line of reasoning on the tip of his tongue: If Cooper was even paying the slightest attention he would know that the robbers won’t come out to the car themselves; they have sent the hostages to do all of their grunt work so far. No, they will send hostages to the car like clay pigeons while they themselves come out with the others and make their getaway. But, he doesn’t get a chance to say any of it before he is interrupted.  
  
Now, in his ear, clear as a bell, is the robber’s voice. “Hello! And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” He is speaking directly into John’s phone. Sherlock swallows, takes a breath, and then smiles. Finally—he can do this his way. He looks to Lestrade, who gives him a nod. Cooper looks apoplectic.  
  
“I am Sherlock Holmes. Who is this?”  
  
“Oh, I won’t be telling you that. Have you been enjoying the show? A positive production for the BBC, eh?”  
  
Sherlock grins again. “It has been rather enlightening, if that’s what you mean.” Sherlock pauses a moment before he continues. “The car you requested is here. I’m looking right at it. It is rather a nice one. I am surprised that the Met could afford it, judging from the state of Cooper’s suit.”  
  
The robber huffs out a chuckle as the main phone line begins ringing once again. The robber says to Sherlock, “If you’ll hold for a moment, it seems I have another call to take.” There is a brief pause before Sherlock hears him pick up the bank line. “Hello,” he says, voice sounding a little further away.  
  
Sherlock listens to Cooper from where he stands. “Your car is here now. What do you say we get everyone out and on their way? Will you send the hostages out?”  
  
“I dunno, mate. We’ve all got rather cosy in here, like our own little family. Wouldn’t want to break up a family now, would you?”  
  
Sherlock speaks into his line of the phone, interrupting before Cooper can respond. “You know that they are only minutes away from using all this tear gas they’ve brought with them. They _will_ make you come out.”  
  
Cooper strides over and yanks the phone from Sherlock’s hand before Sherlock can block him. Sherlock lunges for his phone, but Cooper steps back smoothly. “Listen,” he says into his own earpiece, glaring daggers at Sherlock. “I don’t think Sherlock really has the full picture of what’s happening out here.” His voice is so oily that it is practically dripping. “We want to help you, but you are going to have to work with us.”  
  
Now, Sherlock can’t hear the robber’s end of the conversation, only Cooper’s, which is thoroughly useless. He looks over toward the bank, where John and the other hostages are running out of time while Cooper tries and fails to make allies of petty criminals. He needs to get inside before gas and bullets start flying, which will be very soon if he doesn’t do something about it.  
  
Sherlock formulates a new plan. He runs a hand through his hair as he allows himself to look visibly upset. He backs away from the crowd of police at the front, storming off to where the cars were parked a bit further back.  On his way, he bumps hard into Lestrade, who shoots him an apologetic look for Cooper but otherwise does not try to stop him.   
  
Once Sherlock is standing at the door to Lestrade's car, he quickly looks to ensure that the Met's collective attention is back on the robbery before he drops the act. Satisfied, he allows the lines of his face to normalise, posture changing entirely as he hones his focus, decides what to do next.  When he tests the door handle, it is unlocked. Working quickly, Sherlock removes his suit jacket and lays it on the passenger seat. Then, he slips Lestrade’s newly pick-pocketed badge into his pocket next to his burner mobile and fits the Browning under his shirt at the small of his back. He rolls up his sleeves, nicks a pair of sunglasses along with a pack of cigarettes and lighter from the glove compartment.  
  
Once he has the sunglasses on, he walks round the side of the building, looking like any other City Boy simply having a fag after a late lunch. No one bothers him as he stays back, plastering a curious Lookie-Loo expression on his face while he is actually inspecting each entrance to the building. The most promising is an emergency exit that will likely take him through the back. It is guarded by only one uniformed officer.  
  
The officer hasn’t seen him yet, so Sherlock takes a moment to fit the badge to the waistband of his trousers. He reads the officer’s name from his uniform and moves closer.  
  
“Oi,” Sherlock says. “You MacIntyre?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s me,” MacIntyre says.  
  
“Lestrade needs you up front. I’m on this now,” Sherlock says, authoritative.  
  
MacIntyre’s eyes flick to the badge at Sherlock’s waist, but he does not offer any protest. He nods at Sherlock once and goes, leaving Sherlock alone with only a locked door separating him from whatever is happening inside.  
  
Sherlock drops his cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his foot before setting to work. It’s a fairly standard keypad lock, which should be simple enough. He takes a moment to study the keys. Aside from a faded number seven, there aren’t any other visible signs for which numbers are used more frequently than the rest. Stooping to the ground, he gathers a small handful of the fine dirt and dust that has settled into the corner where the building meets the pavement. He holds it in front of the keypad and blows.  
  
It does just as he’d hoped; the dust lets him see the fading on four of the numbers fairly easily, and he begins methodically trying each combination. After he’s tried and failed at each one, he is frustrated. That should have worked! Sherlock takes a step back and stares at the keypad once more—what has he missed?  
  
He lets his mind go blank as he follows the first round of trials through his memory. He’s got halfway through when he slaps his own palm against his forehead. Idiot. Of course—the seven is more visibly faded because it must be used twice. Not a four-number code, a _five-number_ code! He begins his work again, and this time it only takes a couple of tries before he’s found the correct combination, and the lock clicks.  
  
Inside, he props the door open with the lighter, leaving it barely ajar—half an inch keeping it from shutting all the way.  
  
He sends a text to Lestrade: _Am inside the bank. West side emergency exit open. Phone on silent. Text as necessary. -SH_  
  
It is only a moment before Lestrade texts back: _Fucking hell, sherlock. U couldn’t just let cooper do his job. I can be at entrance when you need me._  
  
From his place in the back corridor, Sherlock can hear the robber shouting into the phone at Cooper. He is losing some of his self-control, and if the Met is going to act as stupidly as he thinks they will, Sherlock hasn’t an abundance of time to work out how to get John and the others to safety.  
  
He moves forward so that he can peer into the main room, unnoticed by the people there for the time being, but able to see and hear what’s going on. The robber is still arguing with Cooper when Sherlock’s phone buzzes again with a text from Lestrade telling him that they are prepping the gas canisters to go.  
  
Sherlock takes a breath and moves further forward, using the corridor wall for cover as he speaks loudly.  
  
“Whatever he’s saying to you is a lie. They will send the gas canisters in minutes.”  
  
“Who is that? How the bloody hell did he get in here?” the other robber, the one with the Northern accent, says.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock says. “I’d love to come out and introduce myself properly, but I don’t like being outnumbered with guns; that rarely ends well. But, believe me—I can be back outside in seconds if necessary. Now, are we going to sit around chatting all afternoon, or are we going to leave before the shooting starts?”  
  
There is the sound of shuffling feet and low whispers as the two robbers discuss their options, heads bent closely together, Cooper clearly forgotten. The hostages are craning their necks to try and see where this new voice is coming from. John looks up with them, rolling his eyes and banging the back of his head against the wall behind him, but Sherlock also notices the way he shifts his weight to the balls of his feet, readies himself for action.  
  
“Time is fleeting, gentlemen,” Sherlock says. “I’d estimate about three minutes, actually.”  
  
“All right, fine,” the London robber says. “Us first, though, and nothing funny. We’ll leave however you got in.”  
  
Just then there is the sound of muffled shouting from outside. Sherlock feels his phone buzz, but he hasn’t time to check it. He can work out well enough what is about to happen. They’ll be shooting the gas inside next.  
  
John looks up in the direction of Sherlock's voice, expression saying clearly, _What now?_ Sherlock replies with a code he thinks John will grasp: “Notorious Canary Trainer!” he says.  
  
In an instant, he aims the Browning at the Northern robber and shoots, hitting him directly in his shoulder. The force of it disarms him and sends him to the ground, howling in pain.  
  
At the same time, John has sprung up, taking his meaning perfectly. He grabs the London robber from behind, breaking his arm and relieving him of his gun almost instantly. In a second, John has the robber’s own gun trained at his head as he pins him to the ground. “I was an _army doctor_ ,” he says to the robber, who grimaces into the carpet.  
  
“Nice work, John,” Sherlock tells him, picking the dropped gun up from the floor, never once letting the robber out of his line of target. He is still groaning with pain, but he’ll live.  
  
John allows himself a half-smile at the rare praise from Sherlock. “Thanks,” he replies before turning to the other hostages. “Right,” he tells them, “Up you all get, and quickly. Out through the back.” He looks to the bank manager. “I assume you know the way?”  
  
“Yes,” she says, and she beckons the others to follow, which they do.  
  
Sherlock is already on his mobile, speaking with Lestrade. “The hostages are coming out the emergency exit. The gunmen are secured, one badly injured. We’ll need another ambulance. And do tell them to cancel the tear gas.”  
  
=====  
  
Outside, John and Sherlock watch as the gunmen are cuffed and taken away by police in a guarded ambulance. Several of the hostages are being treated for shock, orange blankets draped over their shoulders despite the heat of the afternoon.  
  
“Jesus, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, cuffing him on the shoulder. His voice is equal parts annoyance and affection. He is nearly chuckling when he continues, “You are a bloody madman. I don’t know how you managed to pull that off, but I’m glad you did.”  
  
Cooper strides over, face moving from magenta on to violet. He opens his mouth to shout at Sherlock before turning abruptly toward Lestrade instead. He jabs his finger in the air near Lestrade’s chest. “You! You knew about this! You knew he was going to get inside, and you didn’t do a thing to stop him! You violated almost every single protocol and procedure! You can damn well bet that the chief superintendent will be hearing about this.”  
  
Lestrade sighs and stands a bit straighter. “Come off it, Bill. You just don’t like that someone else did what you couldn’t this time. Go ahead, tell the chief. I’ll be happy to tell him exactly how well things were going before Sherlock stepped in.”  
  
Cooper grinds his teeth, jaw twitching visibly. He takes a deep breath but clearly finds no words. Sherlock smiles at him. “It _has_ been a real pleasure working with you, Mr Cooper,” he says. Cooper balls his hands into tight fists but storms away, out of sight.  
  
John twitches his head, eyebrows lifting skyward as he watches Cooper go. “Well, he seems like a fine chap. Got on like gangbusters, did you,” he says to Sherlock, smiling, and Sherlock chuckles once.  
  
“Wait just a second,” Lestrade says, plucking the sunglasses from Sherlock’s head. “These are mine! What else have you got?” Sherlock is the very picture of innocence, but Lestrade holds out his hand, unwavering. “Gimme.” Resigned, Sherlock, pulls items from his pocket one at a time, handing over first the badge and then the lighter. He takes a cigarette from the box and puts it behind his ear before surrendering the pack.  
  
John shakes his head and plucks it from its spot. “No. No way. If you start this up again, you will be insufferable. Tearing the flat to bits in three days time.” He breaks it in half before throwing it on the ground.  
  
Sherlock sulks, crossing his arms to his chest but refrains from any verbal argument.  
  
Lestrade says, “You know I’m going to need the both of you to come in to the station to give statements.”  
  
John rubs at the back of his neck, suddenly feeling the weight of the day settling into the muscles there. His jumper is stiff and heavy with another man’s blood. “Can it wait until tomorrow? It’s been a really weird day, and I think I would just like to go home.”  
  
Lestrade hesitates for a beat but nods. “First thing in the morning, though, and Sherlock has to be there in person.”  
  
“I’ll do my best,” John says. He nudges Sherlock with his shoulder and begins walking toward Baker Street, Sherlock at his side.  
  
Mrs Hudson fusses over them for a minute or two in the downstairs hall before they make their way up to the flat. John immediately heads to the kitchen to switch on the kettle. He pulls mugs and teabags from the cupboard, and when he opens the fridge for milk—sheep livers.  
  
==End==

**Author's Note:**

> Title credit to U2. Inspired by lyrics from "With or Without You."


End file.
